


timeless

by kytaen



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gift Fic, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6540166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kytaen/pseuds/kytaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With broken fingers and a broken heart, you aim a trembling finger at him, face painted with a similar, trembling smile:</p><p>"One day, I'll make you believe."</p><p>(In which Oikawa is probably a mythical forest spirit, and Iwaizumi wants to punch a wall.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	timeless

**Author's Note:**

> [writing masterlist](http://chikaera.tumblr.com/writing)
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> A gift fic for Tia (@akaavshi on tumblr, @fujiwara on AO3) for her birthday, or at least, that was the plan... my oneshots usually end up in the 3k ballpark but for some fascinating reason, this one shot up to 6k and did not cease until it reached to a full 11k of hurt and comfort. I'm sorry this is so late!
> 
> Tia, you are such a wonderful person to talk with, and you inspire me with the level of proficiency your writing achieves -- nowhere in the near future will I ever reach as far as your words travel.
> 
> ( A/N: I do not know what provoked me into writing this, I do not even know what this is about, my ideas are all over the place -- but I've tried my best to collect everything into a final product. Happy super belated birthday, lovely ~ )

**_i ; broken_ **

Iwaizumi finds him by the lake.

He is resting his long, dangling legs. Ripples dance listlessly in the water, blue as the cerulean sky it reflected, along with the streaks of silver clouds dotting the smooth surface like mother-of-pearl inlaid in aquamarine. Eyelids closed in deep thought, the lines of his palm striated with dirt. He's a distant memory that cannot be reached, a wavering future unable to foretell. 

Iwaizumi does not tempt the halcyon of silence; he lets it flow through nooks and crannies in the trees, waits for the boy to sense him, an intruder in this part of the forest. Sunlight dusts the boy's hair with fine copper, and as his neck swivels to face the stranger, Iwaizumi sees his eyes, are too, the same, stunning color, framed beneath fluttering lashes.

There is a strangeness in their meeting, as if it's almost good to be true -- though what good can come out of something like this? Perhaps it is because of a similar aspect Iwaizumi sees in himself reflected in the boy's disposition, a not-caring-for-the-world sort of meek glance he delivers, or the shroud of loneliness Iwaizumi senses around the boy, like an intermittent aura: out of place and circumstance, out of the loop that is the reel of time bringing future to close at the break of past. 

He takes a tentative step, and his boots, worn soles and all, sink into the rich forest floor -- 

The boy fumbles his palms to the rocks, pulling himself away -- 

\-- away into the retreating waters, wrists slipping in, then half an arm. Bubbles burst as the movement splashes water high into the sky, tickling the air.

"Wait. Don't go." 

His voice comes out as a throaty whisper, but he's sure the boy acknowledged it. Iwaizumi does not know why he bothers to care; the boy looks just as lost as he is, with that ripped white gown, torn and dyed two shades dark with soil. Perhaps it's how the sun, however shielded by a sea of green, still manages to don its generous light and warmth on the boy's head, a crepuscular halo circling his head. Or the crystalline waters, broken at the surface, has mesmerized even Iwaizumi's strict definition of beauty.

_Iwaizumi thinks back, and knows the assumption is horribly false._

"What's your name?"

_It had been those eyes, those pained eyes brimming with reserved tears, that drew him in with an unspeakable tug._

Shadows cross the boy's lips in reluctance.

And, "Oikawa."

Iwaizumi's hands slide to his hips, mouth set in an inadvertent scowl, says, "Isn't 'Oikawa' a type of fish? Freshwater minnow?"

Replies, "You know so much, Stranger-san."

Says, "Iwaizumi."

Replies, "Doesn't 'Iwa' mean 'rock'?"

Funny how even silent nothingness can be broken by sardonicism.

"Are you lost?" For sure, Oikawa could answer this without much difficulty (and without any humor attached.) Iwaizumi is wrong, as ever around Oikawa; rebuttals seem to have their own conscience and tail him endlessly.

Oikawa dismisses the thought with a wave, his mop of unruly and dirtied hair rustling with his supercilious disagreement. "Of course not. I've always been here."

Strange. Iwaizumi does not take time to ponder how convoluted this straightforward answer is, instead bringing another question onto the table: "Do you want to come with me?"

_Vines shudder and quake. They desire to meet with sunlight._

"Do I." 

Two words aren't enough for Iwaizumi, and he quivers with pent-up rage. At first, he'd let his worry take over the majority of his mindset, but this - this flagrant attitude of someone he's just  _met_ \- does not match up with Iwaizumi's weak management of temper, and his weak sense of humor. "If you don't provide a sincere answer, I'm leaving." The threat is poorly concocted and will be useless against Oikawa's dry wit; Iwaizumi is sure Oikawa does not mind him leaving, after all. The only disadvantage for Oikawa would be that he would no longer have a victim to listen to his irritating wisecracks. _Then so be it._

Oikawa pauses, purses his lips until there is nothing distinguishing them apart but a thin opening of a line, and for a moment, everything quiets: from the boughs of trees to the lakewater, to the flashes of dragonflies zipping between stalks of reed, shaking off seeds as they thread through. Then, "I can't get up."

"Is this some sort of joke?" Iwaizumi mutters, and suddenly, he's leaving, leaving the strange boy with nothing to offer but jokes and a hearty conversation behind. Oikawa does not lift his legs to follow. In the wake of trembling dust and skidding pebbles, Iwaizumi's ears catch something, something he's unwilling to let stay there, on the rocky banks:

"I really can't." There is a faint pining, a saddening quality to the lilt of his voice, off-tune and uncoordinated.

Iwaizumi considers (broken) weak legs or shattered bones, maybe a twist in the ankle. Heaving a sigh, he turns on the heel of his foot, boots squeaking on a plate of stone, and shuffles over. It feels different, this time around. Without the awe he'd felt when he first entered this clearing, something is missing in his heart as he reaches a calloused hand and grabs Oikawa's slender arm, not caring for the dirt and mud sticking onto his skin.

Sutured legs turn broken hearts into steel. Uncoordinated limbs turn heads to the ground, and resting hands pry the boy's skinny shoulders away from gravity's ruthless, tempting pull. And for the first time, Iwaizumi lowers his head, staring at the ground instead of where he should've set his sights, towards the limitless sky:

_And time stops, here and there, to accommodate the tangle of feelings we experience; little by little, this inertia will seep into our veins and cause our minds to become used to the sensation. A minute of twilight, in between the lapses of time._

Leaves curl around Oikawa's toes, stubby little buds cracking open a timid eye lining his calf. Spindly weeds ooze a trail at his ankles, and one single blue flower adorning his cheek - the cheek facing away from Iwaizumi -- and a vine, thick at the tips, wrapping his chest. Iwaizumi steps backward, hands flying in surprise; Oikawa breathes and the leaves shiver in response. "So sorry," Oikawa whispers, then faces the (broken) water once more.

_"No, don't face the water. Look at me."_

The expression that flits across Iwaizumi's face is one of shock, but the words he spits out are forceful, strained with a plea he does not know he has within himself. "If you want to leave, then leave. Stop hanging back." He almost adds, _Take my hand,_ but for one, his hands are already clasped around Oikawa's thin, bony wrist, and another, it sounds like a fantasy altogether, the _"take my hand; I'll bring you to somewhere without pain"_ sort of idyllic, wishful thinking.

"Iwa-chan - " Iwaizumi feels a hard lump condense and press against his Adam's apple as he tenses. The way Oikawa says this nickname, this  _misnomer_ , feigns a mocking tone. However, Iwaizumi is choosing to believe Oikawa's intentions for picking such a derogatory name are not negative. In ways that he couldn't possibly understand, this single meeting is cutting his beliefs and tough outer coating, hard as diamonds they once were, to thin metallic sheets of graphite. ( _'Iwa', meaning 'Rock', must have stuck in his mind,_ Iwaizumi decides.) " - give me a moment to consider it." 

His wrist is painfully narrow, clearly malnourished, and Iwaizumi is afraid if he tightens the hold, the bones will crack under pressure. So there he stands, back bent over and acid running through red veins along his arm, aching and sore from Oikawa's horrible indecisiveness and from fingernails biting crescents into his flesh. 

"...Fine. I'll follow your lead." 

The dirt loosens and stumbles with each step Oikawa takes. The belligerent weed holding Oikawa back stretches like tree gum, but does not break. "Careful!" Iwaizumi shouts as Oikawa nearly slips back into the water again; birds squawk in a flurry of annoyance, turning their brightly-colored backs to face the two. Long fingernails scrape Iwaizumi's skin, dig their hold on it, but Iwaizumi couldn't care less about nails more than those crystal-clear eyes, harnessing some sort of otherworldly strength and brute determination that is holding Oikawa together. Putting a bare foot in front of the other, rinse and repeat, and even though Iwaizumi only has a net count of five footsteps, it is like Oikawa's been to the other side of the world, traversed a million miles over deserts and rolling plains.

"Oi, don't exhaust yourself," Iwaizumi says, when Oikawa wipes his brow free of sweat and coughs. The boy presses both palms to his knees as he stands there, bent over with dizzying pain.

"They're not breaking," Oikawa heaves a deep breath, cleansing his mind and driving fury out through his nose. The hitched breathing as Oikawa watches the stubborn weed attached to his ankles thrusts a wedge of panic through Iwaizumi's throat. Iwaizumi does  _not_ like leaving loose ends untied and deeds unfinished.  _I've gotten this far. I'm not going to leave without him! He's not about to collapse! He's not going back in the water!_

"They  _will_ break as soon as I cut them," Iwaizumi grumbles, knowing fully well the small blade he carries in his pocket would not even  _graze_ the tough weed. He sniffs bemusedly at the twist in Oikawa's expression: a shocked and displeased pout ready to tell Iwaizumi that "the weed can't be cut with a knife!"

"I know it won't break with my tiny knife; who are you kidding?" There is satisfaction in the next thing Oikawa does, which is a quizzical tilt of his head, turned-up curls bouncing with the movement. Iwaizumi can almost hear the words speak for themselves: "How did you know what I was thinking?"  

"Come on, try again." Iwaizumi tightens his grip, focused on what is before him. His muscle strength isn't so harsh that it could snap bone, right? "We'll get through this together."

Oikawa's pout melts directly into a set line; he folds his eyebrows inwards as he kicks forward, pulls at Iwaizumi's wrists so hard Iwaizumi truly believes that by the end of the day he won't be able to use his hands any more. Oikawa grits his teeth and pants, exhales the breath he's been holding all this time, and spits, "Never knew it would be so hard to get out of this freaking place."

"It'll be easier if you just kept your mouth shut," says Iwaizumi, with an air of annoyance. It isn't easy getting used to Oikawa's off-kilter demeanor and his random sparks of wit. "Wasting your energy by complaining will get you nowhere."

"Iwa-chaaan --"

_How irksome._ "Can you hurry up, you idiot?" Iwaizumi's muscles tense and bunch up together, and the edges of his knuckles are white with failed attempts. He flicks Oikawa's whine to the side and pulls.  _Is this guy trying to rile me up on purpose?_

Iwaizumi's ears have snapped shut, but the next thing that flings out of Oikawa's mouth is not a querulous complaint. Rather, it sounds like a surprised, "Ah."

"What's that supposed to me --" Iwaizumi is barely able to start his question when there is a sudden loss of footing, a euphoric weightlessness drifting through his chest cavity. There is a crushing weight on Iwaizumi's stomach, and it  _hurts._ It's like he's been impaled with a boulder, hit senseless. Iwaizumi groans as he sits up, stretching a specific ache lodged in his spine. Grass tickles the sides of his face and he wrinkles his nose at it, pushing a whiff of air at the itchy disturbance. At his eye level he smells an overwhelming stench of lakewater and he knows, he just knows, that the boy staring at him with wide eyes of copper and streaks of gold, this boy whom Iwaizumi found in the middle of nowhere and had invested precious time in rescuing, has finally broke free of the weeds that rooted him to the bottom of the lake.

And a part of him wishes it could stay like this forever, with the emerald shifts of trees blanketing their fragile (broken) insecurities, and the water lapping at the shore. Bringing their shoulders closer together with each sigh, each breath.

It's all fantasies until you let yourself drown.

. . .

**_ii ; falling, falling_**

The glade is hauntingly absent of the steady thrum of wildlife, eerily calm.

Oikawa is surprisingly light on his back, hands looped around Iwaizumi's neck. He does not talk, and there is nothing to be said, for he is only a (broken) boy with twigs for legs and leaves for hair, wandering aimlessly with nowhere to go.

"Where do you live?" Iwaizumi asks, keeping a watchful eye for wolves, or any type of predatory animal that could potentially make this strange, blissful day his last.

Oikawa does not talk, as there is nothing to say.

"And you were so sarcastic a few minutes ago." Legs kick his sides as Iwaizumi weaves through wizened trunks, through dense foliage, stepping over the network of crawling tree roots below. 

The cacophony of birds, the scampering of ground rodents -- none of these were present. It is disquieting to Iwaizumi's sharply trained ears; the lack of this familiar, ongoing occurrence is like cold water thrown upon one in the slurred depths of morning, disruptive,  _wrong._

Soft does the world wake. Iwaizumi needs not wait for the sun to douse the skies with its exultant blossoms of color, painting the scenery with the oranges of dawn. The canopy of leaves above him glow like morning stars, and pinpricks of light dot and dapple the soil, the crusty tree bark, and Oikawa's copper hair -- each strand obtains such a faraway, otherworldly quality it leaves Iwaizumi breathless, that blindingly bright halo almost as bright as Oikawa's smile against Iwaizumi's shoulder, dreaming soundlessly.

Again, Iwaizumi is whisked back to the sight of that lake. The trees that shook the gods above awake with their choreography, swirling with ephemeral elegance. The twinkling of gentle water waves and that sparkle in Oikawa's eyes when he spoke, formed words with his lips. The soil had been tumbling down the bank of the wide sand expanse leading to the lapping water, tumbling forth just like his breathing as it stops in awe --

\-- maybe, even, tumbling just like his heart.

. . .

**_iii ; shelter_**

_The ivy extends a shuddering arm and cries, a desperate whimper, for help._

_The benevolent tree, young and hapless, lends a hand._

The roof is pockmarked bare with holes. Even though the hay has been weaved and strung into tight bundles, over time mice have chewed through the eaves and dry grass with their tough front teeth, searching for food before Iwaizumi chased them out. It's a good thing he did, too, or else his hut would be teeming with a rat infestation.

Iwaizumi feels content that he's found his way back by a miracle. Oikawa, however, expresses his dissent.

"Like this, rain can seep through," Oikawa complains; Iwaizumi retaliates with his own sound opinion:

"But like this, the moonlight can bathe the room. Maybe even the stars, if they cooperate."

The idea is whimsical, far-fetched, and Oikawa loves it.

"So, Iwa-chan -- "

Iwaizumi aims a playful slap at the boy's shoulder, but to compensate for the annoyance he feels rising up his throat like hot magma, he allows vexation to show on his face. "Could you not call me that?"

"But it's a nice nickname." Oikawa shifts into a sitting position on the straw mat, toes wiggling at the  _drip drop_ of leftover rain from yesterday's sky-break. 

Iwaizumi rests his chin on a jutted elbow, and flicks at the leaves gracing Oikawa's feet. "Get your feet out of my face, would you? And no, it's not a nice nickname."

Oikawa huffs, but turns his waist and flops back down, facing the drippy ceiling. "Why were you at my lake?"

Iwaizumi does not reply at first, letting the answer on his tongue ripen and to give him ample time to ruminate. He's always lived alone in this hut, close to the borderline that is the dark, feisty woods, ever since Grandmother died suddenly and he was left to tend to himself. Teaching his own body to move like a predator, silent tiptoes and face streaked with camouflaging mud, a reliable bow in his hand. Washing his clothes in the river nearby, picking weeds and herbs on the flowery hill. Using animal fat coming from his daily meals, he's made lard soap and cooking oil, and with the furs and pelts, hung up the skins to tame and dry. There are scratches and bites he's gained from fighting wild boars; this he had to treat using a homemade concoction. Everything up until now, it's always been Iwaizumi himself. 

It's truly a pleasant shock to have another stay in his home.

He cocks a squinted eye towards his visitor. Oikawa is lying too far up the mat; his hair is touching the dirty ground Iwaizumi has yet to sweep clean. The pale blue flower on his cheek is  _glowing_ , Iwaizumi realizes, a faint outline lighting up the dim room.

"Why was I there, you say." 

It was the bare pinks of dawn in which he had left the comfort of his hut. The fire had been kept alive through the night by the ventilation supplied by the roof; only a few embers remained now. Iwaizumi had chuckled sadly at the sight of his grandmother nagging, "the fire might burn this hut down! Be careful!" "It'll be fine, Grandmother," Iwaizumi whispers as he chases the vision away, putting on his clothing and prying his bow from where it hung, and draping his fur cape around his shivering shoulders. "See you later."

The boots were a gift from a straggler. The straggler had come up to Grandmother in ask of food, and in return, he gave her these worn boots he'd traded at the town marketplace. "They're a little old, I know, but there aren't any holes yet! And they work perfectly fine, I assure you." Iwaizumi slips them on, enjoying the small warmth it brought, though he coveted something warmer that would last him throughout the bitter winter months. Perhaps he'll add a trim of fur around the boots, line the insides with rabbit pelt as well. 

The animals, inhabitants of the woods, know the forest well. Iwaizumi had been watching them day by day, spying through peepholes in the bushes. Rabbits know where the freshest grasses are, squirrels know each oak tree, and bears know the locations of ripe berries. Iwaizumi was here for the berries. Truth to be told, it may sound silly, him needing berries, but the tart juice they contained would bring his bland meals to one delivering sparse shots of flavor. 

"It tastes good with burdock roots," Iwaizumi recounted his grandmother's sayings as he pinched off one berry, then another in succession, dropping them into a hand-woven basket he keeps in a hole at the base of a nearby tree. He called the hole his secret cache, though it was evident the rodents have discovered it a long time ago.

The juice stained his fingertips, and he licked the sour liquid off impatiently. "Disgusting," he lamented dryly; there was dirt riddling his skin and the taste did not bode well mixed with wild berries, it seemed. He sensed an erratic movement, and his ears tuned sharp: he twisted his head to find a rabbit, dark eyes fixated on his own, chewing grass unblinkingly. Its long, felted ears shot up at full attention, and Iwaizumi dimly wondered,  _what are you even listening to?_

A trickle dripped into his threshold of hearing, followed by a splash.

Iwaizumi got up on one knee, enthused. He'd been harvesting berries around the vicinity for two winters straight, and there were no large bodies of water anywhere near, to his extent of knowledge. He was so intrigued and a bit fearful that he left the basket on the grassy plain and wandered towards that conspicuous splashing, an arrow knotted in his bow and ready to strike. Just in case.

"There was never a lake there," he tells Oikawa now, though he supposes the boy wouldn't know much of it.

The brunet knits his brows together, and this brings his nose into a tight scrunch. He loops a tendril of leaf-embroidered hair absentmindedly round his finger, and hums, lowly, an indifferent "hmm?" That act alone instigates a burst of sudden annoyance in Iwaizumi's careful, collected composure; he wants to punch a wall.

"I've..." Oikawa starts, but never finishes. His eyelids are closed, and he falls asleep within two minutes, hushed breathing robbing Iwaizumi's attention.

"Someone must be tired," Iwaizumi sniffs, resisting a smile at the boy, whose green shoots of leaves inhale and exhale with the boy's every breath. _What is there to smile at? That bastard didn't even finish his sentence._ He covers the sleeping form with a blanket, and it comes to his attention that there's more green in Oikawa's head of russet than before.

"Were there always this many leaves?" he asks, touching a leaf tenderly with a cautious fingertip. Oikawa murmurs something incoherent under his state of sleep, and it's almost melodic and lyrical, like a foreign song. Iwaizumi pauses above the boy's face, observing the pale blue flower as it meekly shuts its petals from the outside world.

_Who are you?_ It's tempting to shake Oikawa awake and ask the burning question that is tormenting Iwaizumi's curiosity. Never has he seen a person -- no, he could not be a human, could he be some sort of minor deity? -- share lives with the roots and leaves of nature. However much he wanted to, he refrains from giving into his own curiosity. It's not courteous to spout questions upon a guest, much less startle them from their sleep. So Iwaizumi simply bows, dips his head slightly forward to excuse himself, puts out the fire enough so it wouldn't spread by accident but still keep the sleeping form warm, and steps out into the outdoors, reveling the clarity fresh air gave him. The sun peeks over the horizon, and washes the entire land a rich gold. 

"Well, I better get going," he tells himself, adjust his bow sling until it fit snugly. "Rabbit for dinner?"

In the hut, amid the chirping birds and the crackle of fire on the hearth, Oikawa blinks open a heavy eye slowly, as if there is something weighing it down. Watches the remains of the fire, trickling through veins of hot gold, eat through the pine needles, grey ash floating in the air, of red changing into orange and to white.

On the surface, he shuts his eyes once more, ears attuned to the soft blaze.

Deep down, he's looking for somewhere to hide.

. . .

**_iv ; hiding_**

"Fishing?"

Iwaizumi lops the air over the boy's head like he's about to cut wood with his axe. His grip on the chapped wooden handle of the fishing rod twists about until it is comfortably nested within his calloused palm. "Tell me you've never been fishing. What the hell do you eat?"

"But I don't want to go," Oikawa says, avoiding the question like he does best.

"I'm going, whether you like it or not. And I'm leaving you behind." Iwaizumi throws damp soil at the fire; there is a hiss as he does so, and a few straggly wisps of smoke.

When he turns to face Oikawa, Oikawa's eyes are coins, innocent and confused. "I've never been fishing, and I don't know what that means, Iwa-chan."

The twine snaps. "Stop that." Iwaizumi hopes that his unfortunate nickname would discontinue to be of use once he and Oikawa were in closer acquaintance. Not that Iwaizumi wants Oikawa around indefinitely -- already the boy had littered the floor with leaves, tripped over the firewood stack, and poked yet another hole into the skimpy roof until it resembled more like a net or a sieve.  _-chan_ isn't fit for someone his age. He's grown up now, he's been able to live off the land by himself, selling wares in the summer for scantily-gained money to buy fishing twine, needles and thread. He's able to feed himself, clothe himself, keep himself alive --

_"Hajime-chan, how's the rabbit cooking?"_

_Hajime grins, revealing a gap between his frontal teeth and dimples sprucing out of the sides. "It's going great, Grandmother! Smells delicious."_

A sharp pain skewers his head clean. The twine snaps again.

A shuffling, then a petal-like brush over Iwaizumi's tense forearm. Oikawa's hand, reaching forward to pull Iwaizumi back from his reverie. A tingling, warm and cold at the same time, crackles over Iwaizumi's skin, but the tangle of bittersweet nostalgia clamps his throat shut, withholds the stream of blood through his veins.

"Iwaizumi?"

Oikawa's voice is distant, but hearing it frees Iwaizumi of the pain he's experiencing. It's an assuring hand that intertwines with his fingers, knots his heartstrings together, kindles moments broken by naivete and mends the seams. Iwaizumi takes it gratefully, past fading into warm brown eyes and a concerned expression hovering over him.

"...Yes. We're going." His breathing, though shallow, clicks back in. As if in a trance, Iwaizumi curls his toes into his boots, ties the laces of his fur cape around Oikawa's neck, and faces broad daylight with a hazy outlook, mind still numb. His bones are about to snap under pressure, he thinks; they clutch to something solid and wouldn't let go. A yelp, and then everything is clear again -- there is something wrong with Oikawa's hand Iwaizumi only notices now:

(and he feels so bad and terrible about it --)

"I'm sorry," Iwaizumi says tersely, releasing the boy's hand from his vise-like grip. Iwaizumi had let himself get overwhelmed again, and in the middle of day too; that never happened before during times of alertness and when he was awake, only came to him when darkness coaxed tears and guilty lies to cascade from his eyelids. He brushes his eyes free of moisture with the back of his hand, sighs with a catch of breath. "I'm sorry."

He thought he'd been over this, whenever his heart seized in pain; he'd taught himself to ignore, to fight the impulse to cry, to piece his conscious back together after a breakdown. He's strong-willed, and the wall he builds will not crumble and crash into the waves, he's told himself. 

"You..." Oikawa coughs, places a finger underneath his chin, and Iwaizumi thinks, alluding to a storm, that a lecture is imminent. God no, he does not need an essay congested with verbiage to remind him of his failure.

"You don't have to hold back, you know. Cry all you want, let whatever you have to go -- I won't look." His smile is soft.

There's another thing off about Oikawa -- not the plants that grew and budded on him, mercy -- and it is his rhythm. Brash and stilted, Oikawa crashes into Iwaizumi's life, smashes through his walls. The way Oikawa talks is either a ruthless bite or tender and nurturing, his words are foreign yet familiar, and the way his steps are rising up and falling down --

Iwazumi squints and sees a wash of green. Switching the topic, he stops in the middle of the well-trod path. "Oikawa," he starts, and is almost afraid to ask, fear it would bring Oikawa's sunny laughs into grim, unsettling silence. "Is your knee all right?"

The vine wraps snugly around the disfigured knee, and it feels like it has another personality, the way it seems to stare Iwaizumi down with soulless, imaginary eyes, grinning smugly with nonexistent fangs. Iwaizumi shudders at his peculiar sense of foreboding, but continues defiantly, perhaps even harshly, "You're limping, Oikawa."

Oikawa turns around, and it is what Iwaizumi feared: the boy's head of windswept hair coming to a standstill, and those eyes -- those eyes held a certain immobility that could turn Iwaizumi into stone. Then, Oikawa opens his mouth; Iwaizumi prepares for the worst --

His laugh is like the bell-chimes at the marketplace, resounding off the stalls and into the hustle of people milling about. It is light as a feather, devoid of solidity and weight, and Iwaizumi does everything in his will not to deem it "fake". It triggers a doubt in his mind, however, and he views the glowing cheeks and shattering smile with lenses of attuned wariness.

"It's fine! Doesn't hurt at all." 

Fake.

_Fake._

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop himself. "You don't have to lie to me."

Every exaggerated, forced laugh, every cunning joke, had that all been in effort of cheering Iwaizumi up? Did Iwaizumi really have such a gloomy composure so that even from the very beginning, the moment he'd met the boy at the lake, Oikawa had recognized it?

He's thinking too much, and he knows it, a habit he's come close to accepting but never entirely. 

Stunned, the regular intervals of leaves swaying in the wind freeze, as if anticipating Oikawa's sudden stillness. A small voice, and Iwaizumi second-guesses the boy, that he's going to apologize, or object. 

Iwaizumi is wrong, as ever around Oikawa.

The boy breaks into another smile, and this time, it captures the brightness of the sun and the hope coming along with it. "I'm genuinely happy, spending time with you. I didn't want you to feel pain for me, when you're already sick of it. When you're happy, like that face you made when I escaped from the lake --" the boy turns away in embarrassment, heat climbing up his cherry-red cheeks -- "it makes the pain in my knee disappear."

Iwaizumi is the one who wants to object now. "Oi, Trashikawa." He tests out the nickname on his tongue, feeling a short-lived burst of satisfaction for the revenge he's dealt, before coming to terms of what he's done. He's supposed to feel worried, not conceited. He hands the fishing rod and supplies to Oikawa; the other boy's eyes drift from the sudden weight to Iwaizumi's face, a futile attempt in his search for answers.

"Wh...what is this for... if you wanted me to carry it you should've said so."

Iwaizumi ignores him, and bends down, hands stretched behind his back. "Climb on."

Oikawa holds the items to his chest and does not move. Recognition blooms a second later, like ripples in a pond surging in concentric circles. "Wait, are you sure about this, Iwa-ch -- Iwaizumi?"

"Your leg isn't going to last like this." Iwaizumi forms a loop with his arms, and Oikawa sprawls across his broad back tentatively. A vine comes into view, and Iwaizumi blows it away from his nose. "The place we're going, it's too far. Your knee will give in once we get there."

The rest of the road is quiet once again. Oikawa is awake this time around, but it makes no difference -- no bird calls, no scratches against wood, no scurrying among the brush. Far to the left, just around the bend of a windy, grass-covered knoll, there lies the path towards civilization, towards the lively town with its grand marketplace and variety of wares and trinkets. Iwaizumi doesn't plan on traversing that road, at least not yet, because he dislikes crowded places: he enjoys the quiet of the forest and Nature's sounds ringing upon his home in the morning.

However, the path _is_ a great shortcut to the river, and Iwaizumi knows the landmarks. Only a third of the route will be walked. He'll have to turn at where the wild tulips thrived, then cut across a ravine.

"I'm going to take a shortcut, okay?" Oikawa is sleeping, but Iwaizumi says this anyways -- talking to someone is strangely comforting in the non-conforming stillness. "It leads to the town, but I won't --"

In an instant, Oikawa is awake and complaining. The boy would not settle, his want to get off of Iwaizumi's back so strong, and he squirms in Iwaizumi's handhold. 

"I can't survive in towns! Don't take me there," Oikawa shouts, kicking Iwaizumi's shin. Iwaizumi nearly loses his footing.

"Would you calm down, Trashikawa? I wasn't going to take you there anyways."

He feels Oikawa's legs go limp, dangle in the air. Honeybees buzz as the two go by, collecting their daily quota of pollen. No one dares to speak, and the shuffle of feet over grass is magnified, a voluminous crashing in their ears. The sound of water on stone is like soothing music shaping rough boulders into smooth pebbles, caressing Iwaizumi's ears until it no longer hurt, and he sets Oikawa down.

"We're here."

. . .

**_v ; laughter_**

_The village is small, with only 20 or so households, but it is lively as it is familiar. A boy huddles a woven basket to his chest, treading along the dirt path and humming to himself_

_"Hey, kid," the uncle next door ruffles Hajime's hair as the child passes. The uncle isn't related to Hajime as far as blood is concerned, but there's a strong bond between him and the elder. Sometimes, Uncle would give him a piece of candy he'd bought from the town. They'd play with whittled boats now and then too, watch the little crafts float downstream on their own adventures out into the wide world._

_"Good afternoon," Hajime chirps, holding up the basket. "Look at what I got."_

_"That's a lot of berries, Hajime-chan," Uncle proclaims. He pats Hajime on the head and taking up a shovel, walks away. "Be sure to say hello to your grandmother for me, will ya."_

_"Mhmm!" Hajime waves at the figure until it disappears into the lone distance, then picks up the basket and heads home, a spring in his step._

_Boys from his neighborhood frolicked around the river in the afternoons, apparently unafraid of the sweltering sun. Today is no different. "Hey, Hajime-kun, you wanna join us? We're taking a dip."_

_Hajime set his basket down, running towards the two on his short legs. "None of you have gotten in the water yet," he hollers, waving at the boys._

_"Mattsun is scared, so I offered to stay here until he goes in," Takahiro explains, lips jutting out into a pout. "C'mon, I already told you that this river's current is weak. You won't drown."_

_"That's not it, Makki," says the other boy. "It's just too cold." Issei dips a toe in and shivers, pulling the toe out as quickly as he can. "See? I can't go in."_

_"Hajime!' Takahiro calls, raking his short hair and smirking. "Why don't you try? Maybe if you go, then Mattsun will, too."_

_Issei nudges Takahiro with his elbow. "That's not fair, Makki. Using someone else in your dirty game... I can't believe you."_

_"Dirty game?" Takahiro appears to be offended. "Who do you think I am? Oh, look! Hajime's going to jump. See, it's not cold at all."_

_The water stings his nose and Hajime breaks the surface, coughing. "It's f-f-freezing," he says, teeth chattering. Then, for no peculiar reason, he starts to laugh, and before he knows everyone is laughing along with him._

_The laughter of three is surprisingly powerful, Hajime thinks. It feels warm._

The river has not changed, even as everything else has.

"Here," Iwaizumi says, throwing a fishing rod at Oikawa, which the boy catches expertly. Oikawa fiddles with the instrument, turning it this way and that way, peering into the strange workings with a trained eye. He gives up after a minute or so, placing the rod onto his lap and waiting patiently for Iwaizumi to set everything up.

Iwaizumi's hand brushes over his thigh, feeling the bump of a handle underneath. He'd preferred if Oikawa weren't here, but he had no choice, lest risk the house to crumble into dust when he came back, or for some terrible thing to happen to his guest. Iwaizumi himself is responsible for his own actions, and no one else, partly because there  _was_ no one else around.

Giving Oikawa a quick side-glance, Iwaizumi reaches around his neck, fingers brushing against a thin thread, then unfastens it. He hears Oikawa shift closer, and the scent of rainwater wafts off of him, with faint traces of floral undertones from the flower blooming on his cheek. Iwaizumi quickly closes his palm once he notices he's got an audience, but it does not prevent Oikawa's question, which is an intrigued "What's that?"

"Nothing."

"It's not 'nothing' if I can clearly see you trying to hide it." Oikawa leans in, and wrinkles crease from the corners of Iwaizumi's eyes as he backs away, travelling across the grassy shore on two hands.

"Something I've been using to keep track of," Iwaizumi grunts, still increasing the distance between him and Oikawa, until on a better whim, he stops what he's doing and stuffs the necklace into his underclothing. 

To Iwaizumi's dismay, Oikawa is coming towards him, limping on his vine-coiled leg rather quickly. The boy plops down; Iwaizumi raises his eyebrows and says nothing until Oikawa initiates a conversation Iwaizumi's been dreading.

"Of what?"

This time, it's not the twine that snaps, but Iwaizumi himself. "Days after my grandmother's death. Got it?" The lie tastes numb on his tongue, like unripe fruit, but anything was better than the truth. His gut twists, something isn't right -- and Iwaizumi realizes, _he's_ not right. He'd been acting childish, like toddlers arguing over an insignificant play-toy that at the end of the day, didn't mean a thing. There is nothing wrong in asking a question, and Oikawa was just curious; it practically radiated off his thin body. 

He doesn't know where his sense of trust comes from, but it is there, slowly materializing from a whirlwind of anguished voices clamoring lies into his ears until they ring. 

He supposes there aren't _too_ many undesirable consequences he needs to deal with in telling Oikawa his secret.

Heaving a sigh, he plucks the necklace back into view. It's not too pretty to look at: a poorly-cut circle resembling an amulet, with some sort of intricate design decorating the center. Instead of a chain, a red thread is looped through a small eye. "I... I was making this for my grandmother's birthday. I," he gulps, a twinge of pain shooting through his chest, "I didn't quite make it."

The brunet breathes out a baited breath. "I'm so sorry," he says, after a while of keeping his mouth shut. There are streaks gleaming down the side of his face, and Iwaizumi realizes, with a jolt, that Oikawa is crying.

"Wait, you don't have to cry," Iwaizumi says, astounded. Oikawa sniffs, dabbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. He smiles through his tears, and Iwaizumi spots a dimple he had previously missed seeing. 

"I'm fine now," Oikawa puffs out his cheeks, blinking the remaining tears away. "Sorry about that. I don't know what got into me."

"Are you sure you're alright? If you aren't, I'm going to throw you into the river."

"M-Mean!" The boy quiets, and a pang of worry hits Iwaizumi as Oikawa shrinks within himself, chewing his lip.

"I've... always been pretty alone out there," Oikawa says wistfully, kicking the water until splashes doused Iwaizumi's stiff hair and Iwaizumi takes his worry back: he feels like punching a wall again (except there are no walls out in the wild. Damnit.) "That's why I love hearing other people's stories. It sort of fills my heart with the feelings, the sights, the experiences you guys feel. But after chatting with me, they always go back to where they come. Maybe it's because of  _this -- "_ Oikawa lifts a tendril of ivy from his forehead, then lets it down again, "-- but, I guess that's not it, is it?" At this, he breaks into sanguine chuckles, bouncy and full of mirth.

_Fake._

"People like you have visited me, you know." Oikawa has a faraway look in his sparkling eyes, and his voice is hushed, as if he dares not wake up the gods sleeping above. "A hunter, a lost traveler, a peddler. But," he says, and Iwaizumi's breath catches abruptly, "you're the only one who stayed."

The handcrafted fishing rod is heavy all of a sudden. Chills wrap Iwaizumi's arms and bind them together; he swallows question after question down his gullet. A day has passed and yet he cannot fathom just who the heck Oikawa is. "What are you?" he blurts out in a rush, and immediately regrets it. 

How many times does he have to feel regret before his quick-to-act mind returns to normal?

"...what do you mean,  _what_ am I?" Oikawa tone is dead serious, housing a hidden threat or at least the thought of it.

Oikawa suddenly jumps backwards, landing on his back two feet away from the river. Water displaced from Oikawa's jerked movement flies straight into Iwaizumi's face, and he drops the rod. "What the hell're trying to do?" he sputters, momentarily forgetting his guilt as it is converted to muted anger.

"Nothing!" Oikawa squeaks. The water is silent and still once more, just quiet enough for Iwaizumi to hear Oikawa repeat his words. "Nothing at all."

"Nothing?" Iwaizumi questions, spitting out a mouthful of bad-tasting water.

"I... I think I saw a snapping turtle," Oikawa says lamely; his disbelief in his own words is smack-dab on his face.

Iwaizumi turns away from the boy, eyebrows creased. Seeing that the boy isn't in the mood to elaborate, Iwaizumi draws his blade out, and begins to hack away at the pendant. He whittles curls of wood off, blowing the dust out of the newly-cut grooves.

"Ah! I think I caught one!" Oikawa yells, pulling at the rod -- Iwaizumi's rod, to be exact -- Iwaizumi topples over and so does Oikawa. 

_You and your stupid, stupid antics._

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Iwaizumi asks, fuming. "I was holding the knife, you could've gotten hurt --"

Oikawa releases the rod, and amazingly, there's a fish, bulbous eyes staring unblinkingly at the two, writhing about on the grass.

The brunet stretches his mouth into a full, innocent smile. "Having fun."

"How... how did you know there was a fish on the hook?" A decade of living in isolation has trained Iwaizumi's ears to be as sharp as a rabbit's, and his sense of his surroundings to a pinpoint accuracy, and yet he hadn't discerned the telltale movements vibrating through his wooden rod.

Oikawa shrugs. "I know this river."

The next thing he says causes Iwaizumi to double over in disbelief.

"I've talked to it personally. It's a friend of mine."

"Whoa, slow down. Are you mad?" What was he saying, talking to rivers? Was he a banished man, having left home with nothing but rags, and over time became insane in the wilderness? "Seriously, what are you? You're... you're not human, are you."

The grass is greener where Oikawa is sitting, the flowers brighter, more colourful. Where his fingers meet soil, there are shoots of green; where the wind meets earth, it passes by to ruffle Oikawa's hair tenderly. He rubs his hands together, twisting his own rod this way and that. "Why would you think that, Iwaizumi?"

Iwaizumi scoffs. "Your... leaves, whatever you call it."

Oikawa spits out a concealed laugh, flinging the rod somewhere up the hill. "'You're not human, are you.' That's the funniest thing I've heard someone say before, oh my gosh." He cackles, red in the face, and continues once he's cooled down. "Tell me, Iwaizumi. Do I look human, besides these leaves, 'whatever you call it'?"

The man thinks about this, and sinks deep into doubt. Without all those... extra features on his body, would it be correct to say that underneath, Oikawa is very much human? How his arms are malnourished and brittle, how his eyes light up when he talks, how he lies to hide his inner fears -- are those not human characteristics?

Is the ache in Iwaizumi's chest due to the warmth of the boy's smile not human, not real?

"It wasn't meant to be a trick question." The laughter is no longer there, but traces still drift, like warm blobs of light cast by fireflies in suffocating twilight. "Think whatever you want of me."

Another question surfaces even before the previous is resolved. "Oikawa, how -- how old are you, exactly?"

The boy splays his fingers in front of him and starts to count. Muttering and shaking his head, he throws Iwaizumi a wink and says, "Lost count."

The fact that Oikawa may be even older than Iwaizumi's grandmother makes him sick to the stomach. He chases the nausea away, _it's not that big of a deal._

"So in all these years, what have you been doing? Dragging yourself around and waiting for people to make conversation with you?"

"That about summarizes everything, yep."

"Aren't you lonely?"

There is a visible change to Oikawa's composure; it's amazing how quickly Oikawa's stance and character can morph from one personality to the next. Guilt runs down Iwaizumi's bloodstream until it feels like that day at the lake -- acid down his veins, arms crying out for relief of the pain.

He doesn't apologize, merely waits for a reply. 

He's not sure why he does this.

"Well, I've met many people, as I've said. They all bring these wonderful stories, so I can't say I'm lonely. But..." Oikawa has a pained look on his face that spells years on end of isolation and fervent hope. "I'd love for someone to stay with me. They come, and they go, leaving any memories of me behind. You're not planning on staying either, are you? Iwaizumi-san."

The guilt rushes up his veins in a heated fury. Iwaizumi shadows his eyes and, with a somber voice, shakes his head. "After summer's gone, I'm leaving the village. I've decided for myself that living out here, by myself, isn't good for my future."  _And Oikawa can't come with me, because it's hard to leave home -- even I will cry when the time comes, hurt my head over and over to try and change my mind._ "You can't come with me, Oikawa. You're attached to the forest, aren't you." Before, Oikawa had worked himself into a frenzy when Iwaizumi had let out a mere mention of the word "town", and through this small span of time between then and now, Iwaizumi is confident he's figured it out. "You won't survive if you leave the forest, am I right?"

Iwaizumi is wrong, as ever around Oikawa.

It's high time he gets something right.

"...Yeah. How did you know?"

"I guessed. You were all kicking and biting before."

"I didn't bite!"

"Figure of speech."

Oikawa shifts uncomfortably. "I thought so," he says, reverting the subject, "I know so, and yet I was foolishly holding onto slivers of hope... It's not like I regret hoping that everything will end well, though. "

"You'll find someone," Iwaizumi replies, meaning well when he says this, but realizing it might do more harm than prevent it.

"Thanks for believing, but I don't think so."

When his grandmother died of a heart attack, Iwaizumi had been twelve, and Iwaizumi had been scared.

_"Good people don't die, right? So why? Why do good people get sick? Why do good people have to leave?"_

_Grandmother is sickly upon the cot."Sometimes, it all comes down to luck, Hajime-chan. You have to believe that luck is with you. Me, I'm old and has made plenty of mistakes for a lifetime. That's why luck has turned its back on me. But you, you have to stay strong, and ride the river. Take hold of the reins of your fate."_

_Take hold of the reins of your fate._

"I'll make you believe." The words are thick as sap from the old pine trees uphill. Oikawa emits a confused "Hah?" but Iwaizumi does not let him continue. "There's someone waiting for you out there, for sure. You just need to take the chance when you see it. That person will give you strength, will give you answers. That person -- "

_will then be the luckiest person in the world._

Iwaizumi stops himself before the situation spirals out of his control. He wracks his brain for a reason, anything, why his thoughts have been spurting nonsense over the past hour, but comes up empty-handed. 

The pendant is coarse against his thumb as he smooths over it in circles. An idea nudges him, waves a red flag.

Iwaizumi slips the blade back into its sheath, flicks away remaining wood flakes from the necklace. He's not sure if Oikawa is looking at him with an air of confusion or not, but he's too focused on his actions, heart beating out a low drone behind his rib-cage. So Iwaizumi goes ahead, and presses the necklace into Oikawa's palm. 

Oikawa pushes the necklace back into Iwaizumi's hands. "I can't."

"I want you to keep it. You need it more than I do."

Oikawa falls to silence. Iwaizumi closes his eyes -- he's going to have another regret piled on top of the mountain of regrets he's built upon himself -- but when he exhales, his mind is clear for once, and he reaches, nimble thumbs tying the knot tightly.

The brunet stares at the amulet on his chest. "Iwaizumi..."

Iwaizumi has been shouldering the pain for too long. Wounds open and reopen with each panic attack when he wakes up to discover he's the only one there. Aches fill the holes of his heart, on broken legs he stands, on chipped bones he treads over. He needs to face the truth, accept it, and move on. Remember his grandmother's memory, but never again rely on the fear it brought to carry him through the day.

"I want," Iwaizumi whispers, then musters the courage to add more force and weight to his retreating voice. "I want to be able to let her go." Dazed by the boldness of his own claim, the corners of his mouth twitch with suppressed emotion. And for the first time today, he lets it crack open into a smile, and the wall's he'd built around himself --

{ tumbling, just like his breath and his heart -- }

\-- they all,

fall, 

down. 

"Happy birthday, Grandmother," Iwaizumi says softly. "I finally finished your gift, after promising I'd never look at it again."

Wet and hot, they run down his face and drip to his thighs. The scent of a flower in early bloom fills his nostrils as he moves in, takes the offer, cries shamelessly on Oikawa's shoulder. An arm pulls Iwaizumi's shaking body closer, and he doesn't pry away.

It feels safe, here in Oikawa's arms.

"Thank you," he murmurs against the fur cape he'd lent the brunet when they had exited their residence. The fur scratches his nose, and yet he buries his face in it harder.

"All I did was lend a shoulder," Oikawa says, matter-of-factly, but with humbleness. 

"No, you did so much more. Thank you."

The sun peeks over the horizon again. Iwaizumi wipes his tears dry with the coat and finally crawls out of Oikawa's embrace, standing up on strong, healthy legs. He spreads his arms out and basks in the rays, and it's like he's grown wings: wings that will guide him throughout life, will catch him if he drops out of the sky, will bring him to unimaginable heights. Reds and oranges paint the setting sky, and every blade of grass, every ripple in the water, is tinted gold once more. Tinted with promise, tinted with freedom. What is different this time, however, is another color, warmer than gold, more graceful than silver -- and that is Oikawa's mess of hair, beautifully shimmering in crepuscular twilight.

He doesn't fit the moment, with his wild curls flickering in the breeze like flames.

He looks as if he wants to say something, eyes ever shy, indecisive, wandering about.

And he does.

"There's something I want to tell you," Oikawa starts, and Iwaizumi finds himself praying it's nothing monumental to their current relationship.  _No, that's not right,_ Iwaizumi thinks, befuddled by his own choice of words,  _when did we ever_ have  _a relationship?_

"My lake." Oikawa lets his breath go, raps his fingers against his thigh. He seems unsure of how to put his thoughts into words. Mumbling something jumbled under hushed whispers, the fingers stop, and he looks up.

"It's sentient."

Iwaizumi stifles a laugh, but it is broken by the fact that truthfully, Oikawa isn't human. He couldn't possibly be human, and he's not mad, either. Now, Oikawa has given Iwaizumi a piece of the truth, the very truth Iwaizumi has been haunted by, curious of. "You mean... it can talk?"

It's Oikawa's turn to laugh, and it's a childish giggle escaping from his lips. "Talk? Oh my gosh, Iwaizumi, how absurd. Only rivers can talk."

"Don't laugh!" Iwaizumi barks, but he has no energy left to get angry. "How would I know that? If it can't talk and say stuff, then what's the difference between your lake and every other body of water out here?"

The laughter stops. "The lake moves with me," the boy says, "it follows wherever I go. It understands me. Or, at least, I thought it did, until..." His voice trails off.

Iwaizumi is left hanging. "Until what?"

"Until... it told me not to go near you."

Silence. 

The clouds shift, turn slate-grey. And just for a second, Iwaizumi swears he sees one of Oikawa's vines flash _teeth_ at him.

The moment is broken by Iwaizumi shuddering at his own hallucinatory vision. "I have a headache," he murmurs to himself, as convincingly as possible. "I think I may be sick."

"Me too," Oikawa says between clenched teeth, shivering in his spot. "It's probably the river water, Iwa -- Iwaizumi. Fishing was fun, but c-could we go back now?"

"You splashed that onto me!" Iwaizumi complains, packing everything and retrieving that rod Oikawa had thrown around earlier. The air smells damp, and in the distance frogs are croaking -- must be an imminent rain-shower. "Come on, let's go." He offers Oikawa his back again, which the boy gladly accepts this time around, as droplets begin to break at the curves of their noses. A fine drizzle drenches their clothes and when they return, they're dripping wet and groaning with discomfort.

"I'm going to get some dry clothes. You wait here, by the doorway."

Oikawa does not speak, and Iwaizumi stops in front of the hearth. Usually, he'd expect Oikawa to say something sarcastic with that saucy tongue of his. Something isn't right.

"What is it?"

Oikawa jolts and bites his tongue. Iwaizumi sighs, and retrieves two warm blankets, one which he wraps himself in, the other he gives his guest.

"I stored some venison in that cache there." He takes a piece, picks at the burnt gristle, then pops one into his mouth. Oikawa follows numbly, hands fidgeting.

"If you have something to say, spit it out. Also, that piece wasn't burnt so why are you picking at it?"

"Hah? Oh," Oikawa says, looking at the dried meat in between his fingers. "Sorry. C-can I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead." _As if you haven't tried to for the past five minutes._

"What... what happened to the village, exactly? I..." he fiddles with his fingers and untangles his tongue, "I went outside last night because I couldn't sleep, and the other huts, I found them empty."

Iwaizumi stops chewing. A small lump of it gets stuck in his throat, and he bursts into a fitful cough. 

"Are you okay?" Oikawa asks, eyes drawn with concern. Iwaizumi massages his neck while dipping a hand into the water basin, sipping a handful until he could properly breathe again.

"I'm fine," Iwaizumi says, wiping the excess water from his mouth. "Fire."

Oikawa walks over -- or should he say, limps over -- and sits, cross-legged, scratching his scalp. "You should really be more careful next time, Iwa-ch -- Iwaizumi. Chew your food slower." Then, a shadow passes his face, drips off his cheekbones at angles. It dissolves as soon as it came, followed by a hint of a reassuring smile -- but for whom? For Oikawa himself?

Iwaizumi isn't sure, but there's another problem that is bugging him: he doesn't know if he wants to punch the wall or punch Oikawa's silly grin off his face.

"What're you laughing at," Iwaizumi scowls, dragging Oikawa by the scruff until the boy is back on his mat. "And quit moving around in the house -- the more you explore, the more your leaves drop and the more I have to clean."

Oikawa rubs his face with his hand, hiding most of his mouth behind it. "I was smiling?"

"Don't act innocent." 

Rain pelts on the walls and through the roof. The midnight-blue of the sky reflects in Oikawa's eyes; they are no longer soft but holds a disconcerting edge to them, matching the mood outside. Up to the brim with roiling storms and a sharp, intent gaze akin to the criss-cross shreds of lightning.

"Listen, Iwaizumi... what did you mean by 'fire'?"

The other boy finishes his chunk of venison and pats his hands together. "Put out the fire while I'm gone."

"Gone where? Where are you going?" Oikawa's voice rises in panic, and the hardness in his eyes melt away in an instant; _is he really that afraid to be left alone or is there some other reason_? Iwaizumi thinks.

Iwaizumi purses his lips into what sort of resembles an unamused smile. "Sleep."

. . .

**_vi ; breaking_**

_The water crawls up to the windows, but does not escape. It is being contained in the hut, Iwaizumi notices too late. He tears at the door with frantic swipes, feeling the frigid water climb up his neck._

_"Grandmother!" he gurgles, searching for a shadow or some indication that she is safe somewhere. He finds none, but is reassured to find no one in the house besides him. Bubbles of air escape from his mouth as he is pulled under, long legs kicking to the surface, fighting the water's pull._

_It is murky underneath. Spots of light dance above, cracking the surface. Iwaizumi thrashes in the water, muscles failing to respond to his silent pleas, until even they discontinue to function, falling slack against his sides._ Is this it? _he wonders, brain firing a signal after another in hopeless desperation. His bones are numb and from exhaustion._ Is this how I am to end? _His vision is fading away; a strange calmness floats down and encapsulates him, hugging him dearly, and it almost feels warm._

What luck;  _he wants to chuckle at the absurdity of it all, that the very waters he used to swim in as a child is now the cause of his death._

Inside the darkness shrouding even Iwaizumi's innermost fears and acute senses, only the feeling of  _not being able to breathe_ screams at him. His head is swimming in a thick, concentrated syrup, he can hear the sounds of haggard choking -- that of his own -- and a pitiful whine in the distance, towards the slit of moonlight slipping in from the holes above --

_The ivy has the tree wrapped in a chokehold,_ _and it is too late for salvation._

The clouds part ways. Moonlight hits his blind eyes and overwhelm any sensory input for a good while. He's kneeling on the dirt-littered floor, and the sparse clumps of dust he brings into the air when he coughs could be passed as pretty, how they scintillate in the silver moonlight swathing the room.

"I'm... so sorry, I -- I thought I had it under control." A timid, trembling voice gone two octaves high with anxiety. Iwaizumi knows it well, despite only having two days worth of experience for it to be familiarized in the depths of his mind.

The grip loosens, and a vine that is two times as thick as his neck unravels like a tail swishing the floor. Iwaizumi leans forward and barely avoids retching, gulping greedily for breath. He feels swollen around the edges, and gives in to his lightheadedness by collapsing on the cool straw mat -- the surface brings the heat down, at least.

"What's with the apologizing, huh? What's wrong?" His voice is contrary;  it's harsh and so blithely unforgiving that he suppresses the desire to laugh. Iwaizumi bites his lower lip at his own indiscretion and urges a wobbly, quieter demand, swallowing his bout of anger and smoothing out the wrinkles. "Tell me."

In the gift of light given by the moon hanging overhead, the boy is beautiful. An ethereal halo graces his crown of ivy, the dust glitters and fades into black. Strands of ivy ink his body, curling up his neck and hugging his chin, moving their way across the length of his arms. They are like snakes on the prowl, hiding in long shoots of grass, and yet Iwaizumi is foolish enough to see only a certain beauty in the vines, how they danced and whispered little nothings into his ears.

And then the shadows set in, and the vines straighten, flashing wickedly as it comes into definition. Iwaizumi reaches under the mat on instinct, drawing out his blade; it glints once but is put away on reconsidered thought.  _My blade can't possibly slice through those thick vines._

"I shouldn't have left the lake. I gave in." Oikawa blinks away tears, head hung low. "I was foolish."

Iwaizumi leans forward, drops the blade with a clatter, and smooths the copper-colored hair with a shaking, wet thumb. "We're both foolish."

"The lake, the lake," Oikawa whispers repeatedly, face ghastly pale even without the moon's aid. The bare threads of insanity breach Oikawa's usual calm attitude and composure; his voice grows louder and higher with each repeat. "The lake is angry, it's taking me back, trying to take me back --"

"Calm down --"

"I _am_  calm!" Oikawa screams, holding his hands to his ears. His eyes are wet, but he does nothing to clear them of their moisture. "It's... I just..." He takes staggered breaths, each inhale increasingly shorter than the previous. "I don't want to go back now that I've met you." 

There is silence pouring in through the windows with no screen, the holes in the roof, slits between twigs and branches holding the structure steady. Oikawa wobbles on his shaky knees, topples onto them. Crashes to the floor, hard. He hiccups, his recent hysteria drawing to a close, and withdraws into the ink-black corner of the room, toes peeking out from the shadows.

It hurts to ask, but Iwaizumi does it anyways, out of his own sound reason. "Are... you leaving now."

Oikawa closes his lips tight, not making a sound, contributing to the horrible, dense silence. He crosses his legs and shoves himself further into the shadowed corner, until only the glint of eye whites remained visible with a hollow stare. Iwaizumi backs away to his own sleeping area, but his eyes never leave the stare, a horrid, pale stare that sends chills crackling through his stomach.

"Tomorrow," is the answer, leaking from a gap Oikawa leaves between his closed mouth. "Go to sleep."

Iwaizumi does not catch the next words, but he has no patience left to care. His fist clenches on instinct. "You think I can sleep when you're leaving tomorrow?" The anger that grows in his belly is not boiling, is not white-hot as magma; rather, it's been tempered, lulled to sleep. It is a dense mass that solidifies into a cold, hard chunk at the bottom of his stomach, and it's only when Iwaizumi hears the telltale sound of deep, relaxed breathing rising from the corners of the room does his throat clench as well, in stricken, heart-torn panic --

\-- he supposes it can't last forever, the embers of friendship and the elation of a new-found companion, before the flames of fate burn the house into ashes.

. . .

**_vii ; memory_**

He leaves while Iwaizumi is sleeping.

"You liar," Iwaizumi wants to say, as he hits the wobbly table with a fist, but he's talking to stale air.

He sees the trees again, bright green and sumptuous with leaves, dancing, dancing, falling apart -- and then the flames, like a tyrannical creature born of breaking bonds and collapsed heads, broken hearts and broken promises. They whisk away everything when Iwaizumi closes his eyes; he opens to the muted glow of dawn with nothing but blurred vision and shaking fingers.

It was impossible from the start. But he wants to make himself believe that it could have worked out, eventually.

"I'll... I'll make you believe." He gulps, swallows the throbbing of his heart down, shouts at his strained muscles on his cheekbones to  _stop smiling_ as he says this. "You'll see one day, Trashikawa. You won't ever be alone again, and I'll be there --"

His words choke. "I'll be there to see it happen."

He picks up the leaves Oikawa has left beside the hearth. Moves it away from the fire he is about to light, wraps it up in the blanket Oikawa had used. He places the bundle in the corner and doesn't touch it, even when the greens transition to a crackly brown.

_"Good people don't die, right? Only bad people have to leave, because they have evil intent. Right?"_

_"Hajime-chan. Is 'good' and 'bad' the only two traits that define a person?"_

"There are two types of people in this world," Iwaizumi says, as he strikes stone together, and waits for the beginnings of a flame to awaken in the bundle of brush and grass. Two minutes pass and it's only then does he realize his tears have been putting out the sparks.

"Those that pass you by with only a shadow's glance,

and those who leave an everlasting impression on you, a footprint to remember."

_Don't forget me._

And in his heart, that strange boy with leaves for hair and twigs for legs --

\-- he'll always be timeless. 


End file.
